Wednesday, March 23, 2011


The bones of your dory rest under the pines.
Untouched since last August,
she gathers webs and shadows.
She should be long done, painted, varnished,
 graceful in the bay.
The wood sits beneath the sky,
bears the sun and moon, the rain
and snow. The wind hums through her, 
echoes her emptiness. Always she aches 
for your hands to finish her.

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